The great-grands tip their hats
while passing one another
at the door, collect their stamps,
refrain from getting too attached
or trying to converse
the distance; edges of debate
the new tongue mimics
and the old have had enough of,
let them keep it.
Grands have been at war
since they got back from fighting
in the one they won,
can’t understand the fact
the other doesn’t; that a placard
of a rising sun
could say as much as soldiers
in the streets of Paris;
mock, or be the answer to.
Come sons and daughters,
mothers, fathers,
passing through the world’s eye
blind;
how many small concessions
will you make?
Just how deep is the rock, exactly?
Can you see the edges
of the canyon
whence this stream began?
@lazarus-wistto another of my recent pieces: The Vanguard.
Thanks for reading!